


B-A-N-A-N-A-S

by GeekishChic



Series: Personal Fanfic Friday Challenge [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And Filthy, But Kilt Fic Adjacent, Could Be Appropriate For Red Pants Monday, Crack, Established Relationship, Fanfic Friday Challenge, Filthy At Heart, Fluff, I'm Really A Romantic At Heart, M/M, Not A Kilt Fic, Oh! And Johnlock, Smut Takes Its Time, Smutt, but that's okay, failed, in case you didn't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:06:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2472608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of going out for air when Sherlock is being a complete berk, John stays in for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	B-A-N-A-N-A-S

**Author's Note:**

> Even though I failed this week(maybe we'll get 'em next time), I decided to finish the fic anyway.  
> 2 hours and 45 minutes late
> 
> The prompt this week was:
> 
> 1\. Johnlock  
> 2\. John teases Sherlock  
> 3\. Eating bananas in nothing but a G-string
> 
> Somehow... I don't know.  
> Just... I hope it at least makes you smile, no matter if it's out of exasperation or genuine entertainment <3 <3

 

 

 

 

"What I don't understand," Sherlock droned, plucking boredly at the violin laying to his right on the sofa, "is why you're  _still_  surprised at what you find in the ice trays."

 

"I wasn't surprised," John declared. "At no point did I behave in any manner that would even remotely suggest 'surprised'. In fact," he injected punctuating vigor into the scrubbing of said ice trays, "'surprised' was actually the  _last_  thing I was. I would actually have been  _more_  surprised if you had stuck to our agreement for longer than five minutes!"

 

"Hark! Do I hear the whining warble of the Silver-Crested Drama Queen?" John had to stop what he was doing to fully take in that one. This was quickly approaching the line between fond bickering and an actual argument. It was way too hot for this. The London heatwave seemed to have wilted the criminal element along with the rest of the city.  John clenched his jaw, puckered and released his lips as he gripped the edge of the sink. It was bad enough that it was so bloody hot. The added heat from water at a high enough temperature to maybe get the ice trays properly cleaned was an added burden. He entertained a brief fantasy of holding Sherlock's head under the dishwater. Not long enough to kill him, just get his attention. He sighed and pulled out his mobile. "Don't bother," came the rumble from behind him in the sitting room. How did he even know...? Still, John tried.

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Molly hasn't anything interesting in."

 

"Right."

 

"Neither does Gabriel."

 

" _For the last fucking time, it's GREG!_ "

 

John had some how made it from the sink to standing on the coffee table in front of the sofa, glaring down at his insane flatmate in less than five seconds. He took a bit of smug satisfaction out of the fact that the look on Sherlock's face was unmistakably the surprise of which he'd been accused earlier. Now if Sherlock could quit being so damn attractive with the sagging curls and sheen of sweat all over his bared torso reminiscent of being thoroughly shagged out, that would help. It was too hot for any of it and John had had enough. Sherlock wisely said nothing else for the time being.

 

"Sorry," John murmured reluctantly, removing himself from atop the coffee table with a rather bashful throat clearing. He was always getting at Sherlock about that and here _he_ was.

 

"You really should learn to calm yourself, John. You'll have a heart attack." Sherlock's iridescent eyes slid back over to the violin, it being what it was the only reason it wasn't in pieces out of frustrated boredom. John straightened to attention, top lip twitching once which was 'Johnspeak' for, 'you're about to be punched in the face'. Instead, however, he executed a perfect about face and marched toward the kitchen and their subsequent bedroom, pointedly not answering when Sherlock pushed every ounce of frown on his face into his voice for the question, "Where're you going?!"

 

Sherlock was in just his dressing gown and pants. There was no reason for him to be clothed as well, he thought, stripping off his tee shirt and thinnest trousers. There probably weren't going to be any clients, at least until after dark, and they had nothing else on but preventing his best mate from destroying things. He hurried at that thought and, even more when he heard Mrs. Hudson's cheerful "Hoo, hoo!" followed by a scandalized, "Oh my! Really, Sherlock. You should put something on if you're going to leave the door open."

 

"Nothing you haven't seen before, Mrs. Hudson. What do you want?" John rushed out of the room at this point, hastily tying his dressing gown and donning his most diffusing smile.

 

"Oh, John! Can't you do something with him?" John's expression went from disarming to  _Really?_  in less than a second. After a fond sigh, she smiled understandingly at him before uncovering the tray. John stared quizzically at what was on it. "When I lived in Florida, the heat in the Summer used to be terrible. And that was nothing compared to the humidity. Uch! Well," she went on after a moment of reminiscing in her own head, "I remembered a few tricks my mother would use to get my sister and me to eat more fruit. Now, in the colder months, it was all warm with honey and hot milk mixed into our porridge, but in Summer..."

 

"Frozen bananas," John answered way too eagerly, to her utter delight. 

 

"Yes!" she tittered.

 

"You are an angel, Mrs. H." 

 

"Well..." She accepted her kiss and left via the kitchen door. "Be sure to lock up," she called behind her. John thought a moment about what she may have meant, then blushed from head to toe. However, from the stark absence of Sherlock, he knew the man hadn't heard a word said and therefore had no idea about the conversation that had just taken place. Yes. This was good. 

 

He locked the kitchen door and returned to the bedroom, then went to the shower for a quick rinse, the water refreshing. Grabbing a banana out of the freezer where he stored them, returning by way of the kitchen sink, he slowly started on it as he made his way to the sitting room door in order to fasten it. He felt it, the moment Sherlock's eyes focused on him, and made sure not to look back. "You should have a cold shower," he said stretching as he searched for the remote. It was by his chair as usual. He closed his eyes and arched his neck and groaned in pleasure as everything popped a bit, muscles loosened by the weather. He then sat in his chair and turned on the telly, browsing.  

 

"Wh... John." It wasn't actually a bid to attract his attention but he gave it anyways, sparingly. His dark blue eyes stayed on the television.

 

"Hm?"

 

"What's with the...?" He could almost see Sherlock's wrist flicking in lithe circles, attempting to describe what he was seeing and John almost peeked for confirmation. Instead he looked down at himself as if it was the first he was seeing of his own attire.

 

"Oh this? My regular pants covered too much. It's really hot."

 

"But... where did you get... those?"

 

"I don't quite remember. Somewhere in London."

 

"What exactly possessed you to purchase... a... a crimson G-string?!" The man was nearly panting. John could hear the barely restrained desperation in Sherlock's voice, cracking it just a bit.

 

"I used to dance in university. A mate on the football team did it and thought I was fit enough and had some nice moves. I admit it was a bit embarrassing at first but it became a lot less difficult with a few whiskeys in you." He was now thinking Sherlock was imagining a young blond man, smaller and tighter, face less wrinkled except for when he smiled. John smiled so often before the war that he'd already had lines from doing it most of his life, even then. The birds used to adore it. A few blokes too, as he came to understand later. "The cash was fantastic! Also, it helped keep me fit for the army. I'm actually quite surprised they still fit." He absently snapped the strap and saw Sherlock jump just a little in his peripheral vision.

 

"But... but you can't dance. You told me..." The thumb and first two fingers of Sherlock's right hand went to that lush bottom lip as it often did when he was caught off guard and attempting to think.

 

"I can't  _waltz_ , no. But I know how to move what I have to, when I have to, in order to get certain... attention paid to the right places." Sherlock had gotten to his feet now, dressing gown peeled off and discarded carelessly on the floor around his feet.

 

"You have to show me."

 

"No."

 

"You  _must_!"

 

"Oh, must I?"

 

"Yes!"

 

"No. It's too hot."

 

"Please, John." The begging almost broke him as it wasn't the affected plea of a nicotine addict between cases who didn't yet know where his cigarettes were hidden. It was sincere. He concentrated on an old Who's Line rerun and the extra slow enjoyment of the rather deliciously invigorating treat. "So, you're just going to sit there, in tiny red pants, and suck on a frozen banana after revealing to me that you were an exotic dancer and expect me not to-"

 

"Beg?" John slid only his eyes over to the approaching man and, with an extra lascivious lick put them back on the telly. Sherlock was straining in his own grey boxer-briefs. It was so very tempting, but Sherlock had a lesson to learn. John didn't think of himself as the most attractive man in the room. It was always someone else, most recently his unreasonably beautiful boyfriend. But what he lacked in height and cheekbones, he more than made up for in kindness, the need to arouse then satisfy in turns. "See, the trick to getting more tips was to first get yourself good and hard," John said thoughtfully, still watching the television. His free left hand wandered down his belly, over the little pudge that had formed there since last he wore these. But none of his aging mattered when Sherlock was looking at him like that. He trailed the backs of his fingers over his own more than half-full cock. "Sometimes," he lowered his voice in a way that always made Sherlock lean in closer despite his perfect hearing, "you could take your time. Other times, either someone left early or there was some sort of mistake made and you had to go on right away. So you would spit on your hand and work yourself up in a hurry." He demonstrated, as Sherlock looked on, his mouth twitching, the little pink tip of his tongue wetting those shapely lips. John didn't have to look to see them in his mind when he closed his eyes. When he stopped, it was all he could do to keep the head of his cock from peeking out over the top of the underwear. He opened to the glorious sight of an extremely aroused Sherlock, sat across from him in his chair, which seemed to somehow get ever closer to his without his knowledge.

 

"God, John!" Sherlock gasped.

 

"My song was... Whatta Man, by Salt N' Pepa. You wouldn't know them. They're an all girl rap group from America that was very popular in the nineties."

 

"I'll learn it immediately." John slid the banana in and out of his mouth a few times, coming off of it with a slurp and a pleasured hum. He could see Sherlock was nearly crawling out of his skin by now. "Immediately after you finish your story," Sherlock clarified.

 

"Then," John went on as if he didn't hear him, which would always result in Sherlock furthering his efforts in trying to get his attention, "If it was, like, a bird's birthday or hen party or something," John slipped back to the vernacular, heavily seasoning his tone with depth and softening his transitions between words to sound rougher, "we'd sit her in a straight back armchair against the wall." Sherlock was up in a flash, snatching the one stable seat they had that fit the description, and put it in place between the right arm of the sofa and the book case there, as the trunk that had been there for a while had been moved about per their normal routine. John stood slowly, unhurried, clicking the arrow on the app he'd opened in order to play the song. He then switched the television off and crossed to where Sherlock sat vibrating. He had him right where he wanted him.

 

John stalked his prey, setting his phone down on the coffee table, the surface making the song even louder. He'd retained the banana, using it as a prop, running it over his lips and taking it into his mouth as far as possible as he undulated his hips and his head swayed. Sherlock had him a bit dizzy with only a tiny sliver of his galactic irises showing around the vastness of his pupils. It was better than the alcohol he used to use and he was a little bit more grateful to his partner for it.

 

" _I know that ain't nobody perfect, I give props to those who deserve it_ _and believe me y'all, he's worth it,_ " John murmured along with it. "This one time, it was a bloke. A lot of the dancers are gay anyways, but none of them were available," he said. "The big money actually came from blokes." He ran his hand absently down his chest again, flicking his nipples a few times and sighing around another mouthful of banana as Sherlock fucking  _whimpered_. He'd never get tired of that or any of the noises Sherlock made when out of his head with desire. "The ones that fight their sexuality the hardest."

 

"Were you?" Sherlock asked, his voice nearly a snarl. "Fighting your sexuality, I mean."

 

"Not hard. Not then," John answered truthfully. "I never really advertised it, if I'm honest. I do like both. So it was anybody's match, really." 

 

"Do you... miss... women?"

 

"Nope," he said without hesitation, still enjoying his own sensations for Sherlock's entertainment. "I was always monogamous. I'm with who I'm with. Focused, d'you know what I mean?" His eyes fixed on the beautiful man before him, he went on with his tale. "So I came up to him real slow-like," he said a bit louder. "Then I told him to Sit On His Hands." Sherlock obeyed the obvious command. "Good boy," he praised. Sherlock almost smiled but was too stimulated, breathing hard, cock straining, eyes flashing. Well, Sherlock  _thought_  he was hot now, but John hadn't even really done anything yet. "So then, I would use what I had to get what I wanted." He leaned over Sherlock, his palm flat against the wall, close enough to smell and be smelled. It was incredible. John gently pushed the banana between those impossible lips, reveling in Sherlock's absolute need to keep John's attention at all cost. He was beautiful. "Gorgeous, you are," John lauded him as Sherlock momentarily treated the fruit as he would John. "Just look at you. Perfect."

 

"What else... did you do... for this... client?"

 

"Just a bit of dancing, getting real close but not touching and not allowing him to touch." Sherlock made sure his hands remained where they were. John made sure not to touch him yet. "Then, I got up on the arms of the chair and started rolling my hips like so."  _He always has heavy conversation for the mind._ _Which means a lot to me 'cuz good men are hard to find,_  the song went on. "It was like I was fucking his face in slow motion."

 

"Oh, God, John,  _please!_ "

 

"Well... since you asked so nicely..." Sherlock scrambled for his hips but John jumped down. He probably shouldn't do that much anymore, not so much pushing middle age as running into it headlong.

 

"Ah, ah," he chastised. No hands." Sherlock would have a difficult time with that, but the fact that he actually  _complied_  put the spring back in John's step, so to speak. He got back up on the arms of the chair, moving with the song a bit, reaching into those preposterous pants and stroking himself, only the very tip exposed, foreskin retracted. "Give us a kiss then, love," he said before Sherlock placed his perfect lips right over the slit, dragging that tip of tongue over it with soft grunts and hums. The combination of the odd position and extreme arousal had John about to tell Sherlock he was getting down again in order to continue. But, in his ardor, Sherlock lifted John and slammed him back on the nearest surface which was over the arm of the sofa. John shouted as Sherlock's head completely engulfed him, the humid heat so much better with suction and the enthusiastic noises Sherlock was now making as he tried to devour John whole.

 

It took him an embarrassingly brief amount of time before he was shooting hard into the back of Sherlock's throat, Sherlock swallowing furiously as John tried his best to get himself back together. There was hardly time, as  _somehow_  Sherlock had procured lube and was massaging his perineum with a deft finger drenched in it. Sherlock got John's hole slick with a combination of their favoured brand and the natural lubrication born of Sherlock's rather slobbery enthusiasm earlier, and pushed inside. He gave John a bit of time to recover, avoiding his prostate with the initial part of the preparation. But soon, he was again lost in seeing what sort of noises he could wring from John, what involuntary movements he could coax out of him and, by the time he sunk in slowly to the hilt, John was fully erect once more.

 

In no time at all, Sherlock had abandoned his carefully constructed speech pattern and was reduced to a combination of swearing and a mantra of John's name as he stroked both of them through a hard, sweaty orgasm, after which he waited until he could walk again, then pulled John along behind him to the bathroom. He turned the shower water on to slightly below room temperature and sat in the sparse tub, drawing John back against his lean chest to revel in the second greatest relief of the day, stroking John's skin and pressing kisses into his hair as they lay in man-made rain.

 

"What was your stage name?" Sherlock asked out of the blue, lazily tracing clever fingers along his clavicle.

 

"It was... uh... my middle name. Hamish." The laughter started in the pit of Sherlock's shallow belly, rippling outward, radiating throughout his limbs, bouncing off of the bathroom walls.

 

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd start out in a kilt, and-" The abruptness of the silence cut him off more effectively than if Sherlock had interrupted him in his usual overbearingly loud manner.

 

"Where...  _exactly_  is this kilt now? And you know I'll know if you're lying. You also know, that if you say nothing I'll find it anyway."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> John dancing to Whatta Man by Salt N' Pepa... I just... see it in my head so much I had to put it somewhere so it would leave me alone for five minutes.


End file.
